The Poisoned House (13 page)

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Chapter 28

Samuel and Alexander finished the second bottle more quickly than the first, and then retired to the drawing room. I helped to wash the dishes, and Rowena wound round my legs. The poor thing seemed lost now. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll get her back.’

I was getting ready to go to bed myself when I remembered that I needed some sort of ball. What had Dr Reinhardt called it? A ‘pointer’? But what could I use?

It came to me. In the drawing room was bowl of carved and painted fruits. One of the tangerines would do very well, and it was unlikely to be missed. However, from the sounds spilling out into the main hallway it seemed Alexander and Samuel would be ensconced there for some time. They’d moved on to brandy or whisky, no doubt. I hesitated, trying to think up some valid excuse to go in. Then footsteps came from the drawing room.

‘Oh, Abi,’ said Samuel. He was a little red in the face and his words were slurred. I reflected that it was a good thing that Mrs Cotton had gone to bed. No doubt she would have had something disapproving to say about his condition. ‘Abi, you can help us. We need more light for the camera.’

‘More light?’

‘Yes, bring all the lanterns and candles you can find to the drawing room. Do you mind?’

‘Of course not,’ I said.

I knew nothing about photographic equipment and wondered why their experiments couldn’t wait until the following morning, but I stopped myself from panicking. The Ouija was safely stored upstairs, and it couldn’t hurt to spare a few more minutes for Samuel. I went into the sitting room, the library and the dining room for the lamps, then down to the scullery to fetch more candles. When Cook heard what Samuel and Alexander were up to, she tutted and said, ‘They’ll be burning the bloody house down, they will.’

I took everything through to the drawing room on a tray. When I arrived the curtains hadn’t been drawn and the window glass reflected the inside of the room almost as cleanly as a mirror. A vase had been taken from the table, and on it stood a strange object the like of which I’d never seen before. It looked part piece of furniture and part musical instrument. Resting on a hinged platform, it comprised two polished wooden blocks joined by something like the bellows of an accordion, made of wood too rather than cloth or leather. From the far end a brass cylinder protruded, capped with a thick glass lens. It was as big as a medium-sized dog. Beside it a tray of liquid, supported on a tripod, was heating up over a low oil flame, while Alexander was buffing a transparent plate.

Samuel took the lamps and candles and arranged them around the centre of the room. By the time they were all lit, it was as bright as day.

‘Perhaps you’d like to be our first sitter, Abi?’ said Samuel, adjusting the position of a lamp. I thought that Alexander looked a little put out at the suggestion. As for me, I wanted to get upstairs to the Ouija cloth.

‘I should be getting to bed,’ I said.

‘Nonsense!’ said Samuel. ‘It will only take a moment.’

He pulled an upright chair across and placed it in front of the brass tube, about six feet away. He patted it. ‘Take a seat, then.’

‘Will it hurt?’ I asked.

This brought a snigger from Alexander, who shook his head. ‘Not a bit, my girl.’

I perched on the seat and looked towards the camera lens. Alexander slid the plate into the back of the machine and leant down beneath a hood to look through the other side.

‘A bit low,’ he muttered. He wound a small handle on the side and the lens titled upwards. ‘That’s better. Right, Miss Tamper. I need you to stay absolutely still for about thirty seconds. Can you manage that?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good.’ He reached forward for the cap over the lens. ‘Ready?’

I nodded.

‘Here we go, then. Don’t move.’

He whipped up the shutter.

I held my breath, but could feel Samuel standing behind me breathing very slowly as we both looked into the lens for half a minute. There was no whirring motor or grinding gears. Was it even working? I wondered.

Master Ambrose repositioned the cap. ‘Right. Lights out, please.’

Samuel stood up and went round extinguishing the lamps and candles. I wasn’t sure quite what we were doing, but I helped anyway. Soon the room was in darkness, and I saw his friend working over the heated liquid.

‘The likeness needs to be developed quickly in the dark,’ explained Samuel. ‘That way the image becomes fixed.’

‘We’ll leave it to dry overnight,’ said Alexander. ‘Will your aunt mind if we pin it up in here?’

‘She won’t have to,’ said Samuel bluntly. ‘It’s my father’s house, not hers.’

Afterwards, with the portrait hanging to dry in the darkened room, Alexander Ambrose took his leave. On the way out of the drawing room I took one of the fake tangerines from the bowl. It wasn’t perfectly round, but it would have to do.

With the front door locked and bolted by Samuel himself, he paused on the stairs.

‘Are you feeling all right, Abi?’ he asked. ‘You don’t seem yourself.’

You don’t know the half of it
, I thought.
And if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me
.

‘Is it my aunt?’ he said.

I didn’t know what to say. It was as though he could read my thoughts.

‘I heard her the other night. Something about a key? You can tell me, Abi.’

‘She thinks I stole it,’ I said.

‘And you didn’t?’

I shook my head.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Soon things will change around here. My father, he’s – well, I’m sure you know he’s very ill.’ A look of pain crossed his face. ‘I don’t mind telling you his affairs are in a mess. Things will be better, I promise.’

He’d never struggled with his words in the past, but I caught his meaning, or thought I did. Was he speaking of Mrs Cotton? Was he saying she’d be out of our lives for good?

I didn’t press him, and wished him goodnight.

Normally I would have fallen into bed after such a long day, but that night was different.

Outside my bedroom the wind was howling and buffeting the roof, and the old timbers creaked a little under the barrage. Rain lashed the window like volleys of pebbles thrown against the glass.

I unrolled the cloth on the floor by the light of a candle, and sat cross-legged beside it. It was freezing up there, but as I shivered in my thin nightdress, something warmed me inside. I remembered what Dr Reinhardt had said about the spirit world – ‘pockets of oil and water’. Perhaps one such pocket was forming around me now.

On the grey cloth the letters were unevenly sized and clumsily stitched, as if by a child learning her way with a needle and thread. Twenty-six letters around the outside, and the words ‘Aye’ and ‘No’. I wondered where it had come from – some gypsy market maybe. I wondered if it could really work.

I took out the wooden tangerine and placed it in the centre of the cloth. If it hadn’t been for all the other happenings in the house over the preceding days, I would have felt foolish. But now the room took on an extra dimension of darkness. The shadows deepened into purest black, and the cloth seemed almost to glow on the floor.

I did as Dr Reinhardt had instructed and placed my fingers lightly over the top of the wooden orb, closing my eyes.

‘Mama?’ I whispered. ‘Is that you?’

Almost at once I felt a warmth in my fingertips, blood pulsing along my arms and through the pointer. Not painful, but unsettling.

The ball started to move.

I’d heard of such things, of course, when a group of people gather in some deserted place – a graveyard or abandoned house. There are always those who want to frighten and be frightened.

But there was no one in that room with me. No
person
anyway.

The ball moved, and my fingers followed it.

When I dared to open my eyes, I saw that it rested over the word ‘Aye’.

Another time I might have been afraid. But now I smiled as my eyes filled with tears.

The ball rocked under my fingers.

‘Mama,’ I said, ‘were you poisoned?’

I closed my eyes again, and felt the ball roll.

Again it settled on ‘Aye’.

I tried to control my breathing. I was sure I hadn’t made it move. Absolutely sure.

I brought the ball back to the centre of the cloth. There was only one more question I needed to ask. ‘Mama, was it Mrs Cotton?’

The ball didn’t move straight away, but slowly rolled to ‘No’.

‘What?’ I said aloud. There had to be some mistake.

I asked the same question again. ‘Was it Mrs Cotton?’

This time the ball moved more steadily and directly. ‘No’.

Not her? Then who? Suddenly I felt a flush of anger. What had Dr Reinhardt sold me? I’d given up my father’s watch for a worthless piece of junk. It didn’t even work.

Or perhaps the spirit was confused. The doctor had said that too, hadn’t he?

I asked a final time, enunciating each word clearly with my eyes tightly shut. ‘Did Mrs Cotton poison you?’

Suddenly the ball was snatched away. It rattled across the floor and rolled to a halt by the window.

I didn’t understand. Dr Reinhardt hadn’t mentioned anything like this happening. Perhaps I’d caused it in my overexcitement.

I stood up and went to retrieve the wooden globe.

At the window, I heard something that sounded like the whisper of leaves. A fraction of a second later, I realised there were no leaves on the trees at this time of year.

I blew out the candle to see better and pressed my nose against the glass.

Outside it was very dark, and the thick clouds were deep and forbidding grey smudges. None of the houses beyond seemed to have their lights on, and their windows looked like a hundred black eyes peering back.

The lane beside the house was quiet, but not completely so. There was a movement – a figure slinking through the darkness against the wall opposite. I was struck immediately by the impression that he – for it was a man, I was sure – was up to no good. I strained my neck to watch him. Then he turned across the lane and I realised he was coming towards the back gate.

Towards the house.

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Chapter 29

I quickly left my window and hurried out of my room and down the stairs, still in my nightdress. A draught snaked around my ankles as I turned back along the corridor to the spare bedroom where I had left Rowena and her kittens. In there was a window that looked out into the stable yard.

He was over the gate when I saw him, and moving through the yard to the rear stable. He reached up through the hatch and took something from high up inside.

When he turned round again, I froze. He was looking up at the house as though he could see me, but I knew I must be wrong. There was no light behind me. He headed back towards the rear door, then took the steps up into the garden, in the direction of the library.

Of course! He had the missing key.

My mouth was dry and I swallowed uncomfortably. What on earth could I do? I didn’t dare wake Lizzy. Heaven knows what she’d have said. Nor Samuel – with only one leg to rely on, he would be in more danger than me. As for rousing Mrs Cotton, that was unthinkable. Any alarm and the intruder would surely run, and what then? Would they even believe me?

But Rob would be sleeping, as he always did, in the china closet adjacent to the sitting room. He was brave and able-bodied. If I could get to him . . .

There was no time to waste. As I passed the main landing, I saw a candlestick on the table. I broke off the half-melted candle and hefted the silver. It was heavy enough to do some damage, if I dared to use it. I took the main stairs rather than the servants’ ones, thinking that whoever had come in would be more likely to run if he thought a member of the household had awoken. When I reached the bottom, I stopped with my hand on the banister and listened.

There was no sound. I stepped down into the main hall. Maybe the man hadn’t come in at all. Perhaps he’d turned at the back door and walked away, deciding that it was too great a risk.

Through the arch, I saw the library door was open. I remembered clearly that when I said goodnight to Samuel, it had been closed. Mrs Cotton insisted on all doors being shut when the house went to bed.

A rattle came from the dining room.

I looked across the hall to the sitting-room door. Rob was asleep in there. If I could just shout to him, he was sure to hear me. Something made me stop. Perhaps it was the years of being told never to raise my voice in the house, or simply the waves of blood pumping in my veins. If the intruder was in the dining room, all I needed to do was to close the door behind him and wedge a chair beneath the handle. Short of breaking a window and climbing out, he’d be trapped.

Then I could awaken the house.

I scurried on tiptoe towards the drawing room door. It was open. He had been in there too.

What could be stolen, I wondered, but a few candlesticks and the odd painting? I crept inside, found a chair and lifted it carefully. But something was wrong. With a mighty crash, something slid off the chair.

My feet were suddenly wet. The tray that had held the developing fluid was upturned on the floor.

A scrabbling followed and a man appeared at the doorway. He wore a cap pulled down low and a scarf fastened around the lower half of his face. His eyes, wide with shock, met mine.

My bowels threatened to give way, but he simply ran for the drawing-room door and back out into the hall.

Finally I screamed, first barely more than a whimper, then more loudly, piercing the silence. I grabbed up the candlestick and ran after him into the library. He was running for the French windows. I couldn’t catch him, so I did the only thing I could think of.

I threw the candlestick.

Now, I wasn’t what you’d call muscular, but the hours of scrubbing on my hands and knees had given me grit and a wiry strength. With a glint of flashing silver, the candlestick spun through the air and caught him with a soft thud on the back of the neck. He gave a cry, stumbled, and tripped over a library step.

Without thinking, I picked up the candlestick and clubbed him on the shoulder as he tried to rise. Groaning, he crawled on his hands and knees towards the library door. He reached up for the handle, but as he did so, I gripped his foot and pulled him away from the door.

He rolled on to his back and let fly with a vicious kick. It caught me on the shoulder and I was thrown against the small sofa.

He leapt up again, and I could only watch dazed from the floor. He picked up the candlestick and advanced. I was afraid, of course, but I felt stupid too. I shouldn’t have come down, and now he was going to kill me. He lifted the candlestick.

Then his gaze shifted to something behind me.

‘You’ll put that down, lad!’ said a voice.

I looked back from the floor, hardly believing my eyes. Rob stood there at the door in his nightshirt. I could have jumped up and kissed him.

Bless you, Robert Willmett!

The man with the candlestick bristled as though ready to fight, but then thought better of it. He dropped the weapon with a thunk on to the carpet and looked at me.

‘Elizabeth said you was a sharp one,’ he said.

I recognised his voice straight away. He pulled off the scarf and I saw I was right.

It was Henry.

Gradually the house came alive around us: Mrs Cotton, dark smudges under her eyes and a nightcap on her head; Mr Lock looking like a corpse dug up and made to stand; Samuel struggling with his crutch. Only Lord Greave didn’t appear. A constable was summoned and Cook brewed tea for everyone.

Lizzy was the last person to come down, and when she did she gave a sad little groan. ‘Oh, Henry!’ she said, seeming to take it all in without being told. ‘Why?’

I saw Mrs Cotton twitch her nose, as though alert to all the possibilities that Lizzy’s words offered. Her eyes narrowed. There was maybe a sliver of a chance that she wouldn’t catch on, but then Henry mumbled, ‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ and buried his head in his hands. Mrs Cotton lifted her chin. She knew now, for sure.

The constable, a man called Evans, asked Samuel what had happened. He in turn gestured to me, and in halting sentences I explained that I had heard a noise and described all that followed. I didn’t mention that I’d been engaged in diabolical practices upstairs.

‘Caught red-handed, it seems,’ said the constable.

Henry didn’t look up.

‘Good work, Abi,’ said Samuel. ‘If it weren’t for you, this miscreant might have escaped.’

I could hardly celebrate. The adrenalin had long since seeped away, leaving me cold and aching. Henry’s arrest could only bring Lizzy more pain.

‘And he got in through here, did he?’ said the constable, walking towards the door. ‘Oh, what’s this?’ He pulled the key from the outside lock. ‘Burglaries will happen if you leave the key in the lock.’

Mrs Cotton strode forward and snatched it from the policeman’s hand. ‘How dare you, sir!’ she said. ‘Someone gave him this key, and I think I have a good idea who it was.’

She glared at Lizzy, and I felt so sorry for her. The blood drained from her face as I watched, and she wobbled on her feet. Rob managed to get to her side before she fainted.

‘Lay her in the sitting room,’ said Sammy, rubbing his temples in confusion. He turned to the constable. ‘Perhaps we could talk again in the morning, when everything is more clear.’

Constable Evans nodded gravely. ‘I think that would be best for everyone, sir. In the meantime, I’ll take this young man to a cell for the night. His employers are sure to want a word too.’

He laid a strong hand on Henry’s arm and led him along the hall.

As they were shown out I wandered through to the sitting room, where Lizzy was sitting up on the chaise longue, sipping tea with a trembling hand. Her eyes were vacant though, and she seemed to be looking straight through me. It was as if all that had happened in the nursery was no longer important, or even remembered.

‘How could he?’ she said quietly. ‘I gave him that key for us. So he could come and see me last week.’

I put my arms round her, and felt her stiffen.

‘You’d better get to bed, Abigail,’ said Mrs Cotton behind me.

I let go of Lizzy and stood up. Rob looked on uncertainly.

‘Elizabeth and I need a moment to talk,’ the housekeeper said to him. ‘Perhaps you could make sure everything is put back straight in the other rooms.’

Rob left without a word and I went after him, though I hated to do it. As I closed the door, I took a last look back into the room. Mrs Cotton was standing over the prone Elizabeth like a doctor looking down at the body of one near death. Lizzy’s lips were trembling, and I knew she was thinking not of Henry, or ghosts, or madness. She was thinking about the baby growing inside her.